Out of Sight
by Grigiocuore
Summary: Lassiter wakes up in a parking lot after a nasty explosion. He feels good, Juliet and Shawn are fine; just another harmless, deadly adventure for the SBPD gang. Except that one of them is hurt and bleeding on the concrete. And that no one seems to see Carlton. A story about love, friendship, and trust in your companions. Even when they're out of sight. SHASSIE, Lassiet bromance.
1. Alba Prima (First Dawn)

_Welcome to my first Hurt/Comfort story: I'm a huge Whumper, and after reading islashlove fantastic fics I just can't help myself. I have no idea how long it will be: just know that there would be a lot of affection, drama, a bit of supernatural and a case in the way. Thanks for your support._

**I – Alba Prima**

**(First Dawn)**

Carlton opened his eyes, and the explosion still rumbled in his ears.

He growled, thinking fast. Last thing he remembered was a pressure on his right shoulder: did they shoot him? But then why didn't he feel anything?

He checked his body: no pain, no cold. Everything ready and operative, _but he was made of steel and blue eyes, Spencer always said._ Wait, O'Hara and Spencer, where were O'Hara and Spencer?

_Damn._

He jumped on his knees, cursing.

He was crouched on an expanse of concrete, air burning of sun and chemical smoke; near him, bunches of people were gathering around a crumbling building, scraped azure on the walls and churned oilcloth on the windows. He was out of the old factory, the explosion must have thrown him out; an ambulance's lights casted red and blue flashes on their faces. _Damn, this time I'll kill them both, I swear._ He got up, running toward the crowd; he didn't even have to flash his badge to untangle himself among legs and sweaty arms, but probably his pace was enough to clear the way. He didn't feel anything, he didn't think anything, just kept hearing in his head the possible tomorrow reports: _one detective and one consultant involved in the factory's gang shooting; one officer critical in hospital; operation aborted, two casualties._

He sped up his steps.

_Two casualties._

Carlton finally came out on the first row, turned, scanned every inch of the scene: more concrete, oil spots, a herd of journalists with their fingers ready on the cameras, paramedics swarming near the gnarled doors of the building. And on the left side, a blond woman and a young man with a gaudy t-shirt.

_Oh, thanks. Thanks._

He muttered one of his Grandma's prayer, scanning the couple: some scratches on O'Hara's forehead, _she would need some stitches_, Spencer holding his elbow awkwardly; they both looked rather upset, even a little lost, but were alive and responsive. This time he would kill them, definitively.

Before he could start to march on them someone rushed past him, unmistakable military pace echoing with high heels. Bad sign, the chief was there: it meant that there had been causalities among them. Damn. He hated when one of their, one of _his_ men paid in his place; that was not how it was supposed to work. He was the one to face the monsters, the one to lead his army and make sure they all would return home. _Damn_.

It was about time he talked with someone.

At a closer observation, O'Hara and Shawn didn't look dazed: they looked distraught, and he recognized all the shock symptoms. It was someone they knew? McNab? Guster? He _said _the two idiots not to follow them.

-Ehy, Spencer!- he called, reaching them. -O'Hara. What happened? You right?- Near them he felt better, more grounded, more focused. They were still all here: he could still touch and yell at them, and that was enough.

_Provided that they noticed him_.

O'Hara was looking as the chief talk with the paramedics, eyes filled with the red-blue lights of the siren. Shawn was staring at him, but didn't say a thing: no "Lassie-pants", no curse, no comment. No attempt to reach for him.

_What. Had. Happened?_

-Spencer, look _at me_.-

Nothing.

He felt the world slowing. -Shawn.-

-No, not him.- Spencer was whispering, hugging himself, like he was cold. -_Not him_.-

Oh no. It was Guster. That stroke somewhere near the chest, but it wasn't the right time. _Watch, breath, act._ -Shawn, I know it's bad, but I'm here, okay? We'll all here, we can fix that thing, but I need information. Who is hurt?-

Finally he lifted his head, and looked more like Shawn: scared to death, but within reach again. Carlton smiled before knowing it, _and not really caring_, but Spencer's words didn't make any sense.

-Gus.- he cracked. -Gus, you're here, thank God, buddy, I think I can use a hug right now.-

Turning around, the detective saw Gus running toward them: worried, spotless and totally alive.

_So no Gus, neither McNab._ Silently the pieces started to fall in place.

-Shawn, Buzz just told me. Where is...-

-He's in the ambulance.- Shawn shrugged again. -They're trying to stabilize him, but they said he had lost a lot of blood and that isn't good and...Oh God. Oh God.-

A shrill suddenly run through the air, mxed with a muttered curse, and Juliet let out a gasp no person should make. He perfectly knew that sound: it was the background noise of their defeats, and of a lot of their victories.

_They were losing him._

Shawn's face got chalk white, surreal like a paper mask, he hissed a "shit" and rushed past them, to the ambulance. Gus was behind him, brushing Lassiter's shoulder. He flinched, because he didn't miss Guster's whisper. "No way you're going away with this, dude. No way."

Carlton walked toward the others, catching lousy details, _anything_ that could stop the clicks in his head._ He was out of the building, but with no stains of fire_.

He saw Juliet, slumped against the ambulance with her arms crossed, the chipped nail polish on her fingers, Chief's voice barking orders, Shawn's sneakers near Gus's cozy loafers. The wounded cop was behind the truck, paramedics buzzing around like bees, and he was still on the ground. He heard a buzz of defibrillators.

_The body was one of theirs._

He drew nearer, and no one told him anything. The pieces were building up and he didn't want but they were _facts_ and he couldn't escape facts, couldn't stop trusting them.

The body was a man, long limbs spread on the concrete; Carlton spotted a black leather shoe, dried blood over slender fingers.

-Jesus Christ, still no heartbeat, and the blood doesn't stop.-

-Charge to two hundred, now.-

_It was someone close to O'Hara, and Shawn._

-Clear!-

His eyes followed the body, up, up to the chest: the wound was a deep hole in the right shoulder, not far from the heart, _damn, it had struck an artery_. They had cut the shirt, _a nice light blue shirt_, but the blood had already seeped through the fabric, on the jacket, on the skin.

_He was someone that that morning stained his shirt with Guster's burrito._

Another discharge, a sob somewhere behind them, and all the pieces fell together.

He rose his eyes, but didn't need to see to recognize that face. He saw it everyday, he had seen it growing to a man.

-Oh God- he muttered. -It's _me_.-


	2. Sub Caelum (Under the Sky)

_Here we are at the second chapter. I'm so happy for all your support: it's fundamental for me and my writing. Sorry for any mistakes. Longer piece, this time, but things begin to move. Hope you like it, write me if you have any doubt or advice._

_Enjoy, and thanks again._

**I -Sub Caelum**

**(Under the Sky)**

Carlton stood still, watching as his body died.

_No no, that can't be, that _can't be.

It was curious how his mind kept lingering on the most inane details: it was a quite normal reaction to a shocking situation, he knew it, a way for the mind to hold on the world without imploding. He looked down and lazily noted the glossy glares dancing through his paramedic's hair, _catching light like cherry wood_, and at the same time counted the seconds without beats.

_Fifty._

In the background someone sobbed, praying and cursing together. The auburn-haired paramedic insulted him and his not collaborative heart, threw away the plates and started the manual CPR. Was he really _that _pale?

_One minute and twenty seconds._

O'Hara was crouched down on the concrete, digging her nails in Guster's shirt and not turning away from him, _no, not him, the body_, for a single instant; Shawn was behind her, he wasn't breathing. That arm was swollen, he should really have it checked.

_One minute and thirty seconds._

-Come on, badass.- the paramedic pushed on his chest, again, again. -_Come on_.-

_Forty._

_Fifty._

_Sixty._

The shrill stopped, turning in a shaky beat. The auburn-haired woman sat down on her heels, let out a breath. -Okay, he's back. Anderson, catch me the emergency bandages and help me put him in the ambulance, I don't want the jackass slip away again.-

And then, it finally sank in.

_I nearly died._

_I saw myself nearly die._

His body jerked. His lips were bluish, blood pouring from the edges. -Fuck, he's in shock.- He watched the doctors applying their magic harasses around his body, glue and gauzes and electrodes and oxygen mask, his _ah, friend is such a banal word_, his _people_ looking at them without breaking contact with the closer one. He knew he should do something, anything. He knew it well, but just couldn't do it, because for the first time since a long time, he had no control. Because what are you supposed to do, when facts didn't _make any sense?_

And things were so damn fast.

_Calm down, detective, calm down. Maybe you hit your head harder than you think, and now you're hallucinating. Or it can be a pre-death experience, or some other new age crap. Or you're just dreaming, and in no time the alarm would start ringing and Shawn would get up with you complaining all the way to the kitchen and O'Hara would chasing you for the unfinished McLannon report and then make him laugh with the precinct gossips._

Or maybe he was really dying, and he was simply slipping away.

He stared at his hands, slowly. He should feel cold, or weak, but he didn't feel neither. He didn't feel _anything_: no heartbeat, no breath, no sun warmth or sticky air on the skin. Just like he wasn't there.

His hands _couldn't_ shake.

-I, I pick up the car and go to the hospital.- O'Hara slowly got up, face hard under the messy makeup, while the nurses loaded his body on the truck. -Shawn, you go with Gus?-

But Spencer was still, and on his face was the only expression Carlton never wanted to see. Fear, and restlessness. The kind ready to turn and run over everyone. He fell back. -I, I can't do it, guys. Sorry, but it's, it's just too much. Sorry. Sorry.-

Juliet widened her eyes. -What?-

Spencer, _Shawn_, looked at her, and the look was scared and mean and old. -I won't go, Jules. Not-not now. I'm sorry, but it's...it's not how I work.-

-Well, guess what, Shawn? That's not about you being ready.- O'Hara spatted the words, fingers digging in the palms, trembling. -In that ambulance there's my best friend bleeding to death, and I'm not even sure he would still be here when I'll get to the hospital, and _damn sure _I'm not ready for it. But I'll be there, the _whole fucking time_. So now move your ass and come with us.-

-To do what, eh, Jules?- Shawn hissed. -Holding his hand and crying like a lousy Broadway starlet? I remember everything, _everything_, and I won't remember Lassie like that. I won't...- The grin faltered.

-...I won't see him going like that.-

And then he turned, _not shivering, not wavering_, just going. Carlton blinked, enraged and not knowing why.

In the background, Vick's voice. _Okay, O'Hara, you take Lassiter's car and go to the hospital, Guster, find your friend, McNeab, you're with me, now. _

He really couldn't understand. It wasn't just Spencer's words, _dissect the problems, sort them in little sections, breath_, it was the anger behind them.

Shaw was defeated. The defeat was _him._

_But I'm here, for Christ's sake._ I'm here.

_For now._

His mind started racing again.

Maybe he wasn't really there. His body, the body he used to shoot with and run and _touch_, was a crumpled mess of flesh. _Oh God_, maybe I'm already lost, _oh my God,_ and they won't ever know, won't ever know all that I want to say them.

_Oh God, no._

He ran forward, past the sirens and the blood stains on the concrete, chasing Shawn: he could see his absurd ash-greasy hair, the leather jacket he chronically forgot at his place. _I'm here_. -Shawn!- he cried -Shawn, it's me, it's me.- But then the hair and the leather jacket vanished in the crowd, and he couldn't find them, and yet there was no time to think, no time to regret, and so up again, running, leaning over O'Hara and the mask of white and streaked black of her face. -O'Hara, look at me.-

She kept crying.

-O'Hara, come on, I'm right here!-

He _did not _want to hear what she's whispering. Turned.

-Guster!-

-Chief!-

-McNeab!- He kept racing, calling to everybody he knew, cursing, hoping they did something, _anything_ that said him he was alive and that crap was _just a damn trip._ And everybody fell through his fingers like sand. Guster. Vick. McNeab. And finally O'Hara got up, and he had,_ had_ to try another time. There were so many things he wanted say her.

_O'Hara, I left your blueberry bars in the third drawer of the desk._

_O'Hara, I'm sorry for being such a pain in the ass._

_Partner, I'm scared._

He stretched his hand, they never touched. She slipped, and run to his car, and was gone.

He stayed there and pleaded for the same two words she whispered leaving.

_Don't go._

Time was flowing in a funny way. The whole scene had lasted five, seven minutes at best, but it had seemed to stretch on a ridiculous overexposed eternity. Now the ambulance and the cars and the cops were far, _sirens screaming and screaming and screaming_, and he didn't have had the time to blink.

_Maybe this is how it ends. Maybe death is living this moment, again and again._

He winced. No, no, he couldn't think it, because if he thought it it would risk to be real, and he wasn't ready for that.

_I won't remember Lassie like that._

Facts, he needed _facts_. No one saw him so far, but maybe there is an explanation, maybe they were all in shock and didn't understand; so someone else should be able to do it, and explain him what the hell had happened. And about the body?

_Facts._

He spun around, avanzando toward the crowd. The crops of people were scattering, someone rumoring, someone taking photos, someone else staring with the dull fascination of who didn't catch all he was seeing but wouldn't lose a thing. He tried to_ feel _the crowd, the smell of polyester and sweat under hot sun, didn't feel anything, moved forward.

-Gentlemen, please.- His cop voice stretched over the sea of heads. -Gentlemen, please, I'm Detective Carlton Lassiter, and I need you to listen carefully.-

No reaction. A pig-tailed little girl pulled her mother's blouse, moaning.

He swore. -Gentlemen! Listen to me!-

A woman crying softly, middle-aged men whispering over their Hawaiian t-shirts, _Christ, have you seen it?_

-Hey. For God's sake, shut up a moment and listen to me!-

_He's a man, he's been shot by that guy with the red pick-up._

_Man, there was so much blood._

-Listen to me! Listen _to me_!-

Shaking heads, grimaces_, No, not a lot of chances._

-Listen, I really need to...-

_He was a lost fight._

-I...-

_A lost fight_.

-..._please_-.

It was then that he saw her. A tall girl, standing about five feet away and monkeying with a large golden earring. She wore a pair of jeans, a Batman T-shirt and a tangle of sandy hair.

And she was staring right at him.

-Ehy, you!- Lassie jumped ahead, leaving the crowd, leaving the Hawaiian-shirted men and their words. -You, the girl up there.-

She turned away, but the movement was too fast to be convincing. He was skilled enough in human ways of lying.

-Listen, kid, don't worry: I'm a detective, I got caught in the explosion. My...- he bitted his lip, the briefest moment -...my colleagues are still in shock and I think something is not right, and I need someone who saw what happened. Okay?-

The girl's shoulders jerked as if he slapped her. She rubbed her eyes, cursing in an expressive, dry language. -Go away- she murmured.

Carlton frowned. He had no time, he had no time at all. But at least, this was something he knew how to deal with: a grumpy teenager, probably shaken by the violence and the blood and by real life suddenly becoming a punch in the stomach. _Stick to facts, Lassiter_.

-Ehy, I know this is pretty messy, but don't worry, okay? I'm one of the good guy, I swear.-

The girl cursed again, cast him a glare that burned all the way through his ribs, and run off.

_Oh no, don't you dare._

He took after her.

It was not a real run, and his was not a real chasing: she just kept strolling among kids and fire workers, latecoming reporters e hobos casually crashing there, legs speeding with a poorly-repressed agitation.

-Calm down!- he shouted. -Ehy,_ calm down_! I could charge you per obstructionism and I've already have a crappy day, so stop.-

She murmured something under her breath.

How she dared? How she _dared_ not paying attention? _He had no time, he had no time, Christ._

No time before the ambulance arrived and Shawn got really away and then, _then_.

_He had no time._

Carlton stopped, teeth clenched.

-Ehy- he growled. -_Ehy_! I don't know if you have problems with cops and honestly don't give a damn, but this is a police officer asking you to collaborate and I _really_ need you to stop, okay?- A pause.

-_Please_.-

That single word froze the girl on the spot. He stared at her head as she shivered, turned in a twist. -Go away.- she hissed. -_Go away_.-

She was panting hard. Trembling, but not from fear.

Lassiter frowned. It was from _hatred._

_Calm down, close your eyes, act._ -Look, I know you're shocked, but I'll only ask some information and I'll be gone, I swear.- He went forward, slowly, hands spread before him. She didn't back.

-No, no, you shouldn't be here, okay? No one of _you_ should be here. I wouldn't do this again, you betcha, so go away. Leave me alone._ Ci mancava il poliziotto, cazzo_.-

_Act_.

-Kid, I wouldn't ask you anything more, but I need you to help me. Now.-

The girl took a step behind. -You really don't know- she whispered. – you really don't know what _you are_.-

There was something in her voice. It couldn't be pity: pity was bad, pity meant dying friends or dying love or dying you, so it just _couldn't be_. -What do you mean?-

-Okay, I'm really, really sorry for you, but I, I can't do it this time.- Another step. -Not again. I promised. I promised.-

Too late he knew it was a getaway. She swirled around, dashing through the crowd in a heap of fabric and golden sprinkles. He looked around wildly, felt the urge to cry, cursed because of it and because of the time and because _he couldn't do it_.

That morning he was eating a bagel. He was eating a bagel in a gashy cafeteria with Spencer and his grinder-like best friend, arguing about laundry and reality shows; laundry and reality shows, _for Christ's sak_e.

But world works like that. Pain, fear, chaos just splattered over you, without warning. It took a second to get shot in the head, it took less than a minute to phone a victim's family and shatter a life.

_Less than a minute,_ clear, _less than a minute, _we're losing him_._

_Calm down._ Carlton pressed the hands against his face, hard. _Think, open your eyes, act. _

He needed to find O'Hara. He needed to find her, find O'Hara so she would explain everything and call Spencer and tell Carlton how dense he had been while brushing his cheek. So find them, the car, the ambulance, ambulance, hospital.

_Go to the hospital. Go to the hospital._

He straightened up, closed his eyes, visualize the three fastest ways to the hospital. And run forward.

_Go to the hospital. Go to O'Hara. I have no time._

Behind him, silvery clouds rolled on.


	3. Occidens (West)

_Uh, pretty hard chapter this time: sorry for the delay, but I want it to be good enough. Shawn will show up next time, don't worry. If you have any advice, let me know. Thanks for your support._

_P.S.: The title refers obviously to the West's role in many ancient religions: it was where the sun sets, and so where dead have their land, but is also a symbol of change and transformation. _

**III – Occidens**

**(West)**

He was at the hospital; he didn't know how, but he was at the hospital. The trip was a blur of lights and wind an colors, no sounds and no sensations, and he was neither running nor walking but simply, simply _moving_. But that wasn't important right now.

_Think, breath, act._

He checked his jacket, brushing invisible dust from the sleeve. He walked past the whispers of the sliding doors, across bunches of hunging heads and past the acceptance counter. He didn't need indications: every cop in active service had been in hospital, either to check one of his men or not to die himself. And despite all his charades, Carlton remembered perfectly almost every time he was there. There had been the shooting at the Fish Stockage, where Rodriguez got shot getting behind him, the car accident when he accompanied in ambulance a broken-armed and very pissed O'Hara, the stupid chase ended with McNab under painkillers and his wife crying and screaming to them both. But every time, at least, he had been in the center of the events; scared, furious, but fully able to understand what happened, or at least barking and sending men and making living hell until he could prevent things from going even more down hill. At least, he had been _here_, with people to be angry at or to ask blunty how bad were things. But this, this was different, and to think clearly again and find a solution he needed to go and find his people. He needed to be again in the center of the storm, before even try to think. So go along the corridor, _do not think,_ take the elevator, _do no think._ And again he was at the right floor without remembering it, and he turned, and he saw the advise Intensive Care, big green letters painted on the double doors. He had to take less than five steps in the aisle, before seeing her.

O'Hara was slumped in a chair, hair a tangle of blond chucks and eyes a puffy mess. She still wore the churnished jacket of that morning, had peeled off her shoes. She kept staring at something in front of her. At a closer inspection, she kept _not_ staring at anything else.

-O'Hara. O'Hara, we need to talk. This is just pure crazy.-

She didn't answer. _Not think, Lassiter_.

He was in front of her, and felt better. It was the right word: Juliet was the person who made him better even when he was scared to hell. Not overjoyed, not immortal, but _better_: high enough over the water to keep breathing. Enough not to slip.

_They both were together. They would figure it out._

-O'Hara.-

She kept staring. Suddenly, like a clockwork clicking on, she started to sob, hard.

_No. No no no._

-O'Hara. O'Hara, it's only the shock.- He bent in front of her. -Stop it. Please stop it.-

She gulped again: the mascara was carving black streaks on her cheeks, and this was not good, _so_ not good.

_It's only the shock,_ but the body had been there,_ it's only the shock._

_So why aren't you touching her?_

A clacking of heels came behind them. The chief stopped beside O'Hara, sat stiffly on one of the chairs. She breathed like they taught you in the academy, deep and slow, _before screaming or throwing up_.

-How's he going?-

-Not sure about this. The docs threw in a lot of "if" and "but", but basically they said they don't have a damn idea about it. The bullet cut the subclavian artery, he lost tons of blood. They don't know.-She turned, brushing awkwardly O'Hara's arm. -I'm really sorry, detective.-

His partner nodded mechanically, brushed her eyes and absurdly enough, the only thing he would like to do was handing her his napkin,_ dammit O'Hara, you still don' buy Kleenex?_. Her voice was a whisper.

-Carlton.-

And there, something snapped. Something cracked, back in the end of his mind, and the fear kicked in. Blowing. Raging.

_Not think, not think not think not think._

-They're still looking for a compatible blood match, but it's not easy. Spencer?-

-I called him, he turned off the phone. I just hoped he would come, if. If something happened.-

Carlton Lassiter wavered back, lips slighty parted. Slowly, the world around him stood out.

Officers, officers and doctors, McNab talking with a nurse. The surgery double doors down the aisle, streaks of blood on the floor tiles.

_They're talking of you. You were the body. _

_You're not working it out, because you're not really here._

Carlton saw the resigned lines around his chief's eyes, his partner's hunched back, preparing for breaking, for _mourning_, and got furious. With them with the world with that leather jacket going away, the burning ice fury that he hadn't felt since he was twelve years old.

He had imagined this scene. _Hell_, he had imagined five different versions of it, with the words they should say and the last moments they would share, O'Hara's shoulders protecting his bed and Spencer's hand brushing his own. But this, this was _all wrong_. All totally wrong, and he didn't deserve it, he never did wrong.

_Not with them. Don't with Dad._

-O'Hara, stop.- he ordered.

She was crying for him, not seeing him. _So wrong._

-O'Hara, stop.- He knelt in front of her, grabbing the chair and searching her eyes, her strong wise eyes. But she lowered her head, muttering curses and prayers.

_Fact, my partner doesn't see me. Fact, I'm not here._

_Facts facts facts._

He swore. -O'Hara, shut the Hell up.- He hated her, wanted to shake her, _hug her_. -_Shut the hell up_.-

Suddenly, a rustle of persons and orders and scrubs slipping in place rushed past them, toward the double doors. Shouted words reached them.

_Emergency. Flat lined. Call McDonnell._

O'Hara shot up, looking older and younger than ever before. -Oh God. It's him. It's him.- She dashed forward.

Carlton opened his mouth, felt something close to panic. Something that was a step behind fear, all the world sucked in a single question.

_I'm dying. I'm dead._

_If she goes, what will happen?_

-No, no, it's all wrong.- He jumped upward, following her.

How can she be so dull. How can't she see how _scared he was_.

-I'm here, I'm here, I'm not gone.-

-Shit.- The chief was up too, talking fast to O'Hara. -_Shit_. They have to give me one hell of explanation this time.-

-I go there.- O'Hara gulped, and she _didn't understand didn't understand_. -I go.-

_What will happen?_

-O'Hara, stop it!- Carlton cried, felt his voice crack. -Stop it!-

_Don't leave me, God don't leave me like this._

He had no time. He threw one arm toward her, not knowing what would happen, not giving a damn.

_Please._

And she stopped. For the briefest moment, for the time of a breath or a tactical hesitation, she stopped. Her head up, her shoulders striaghtened to catch everything, to hold her breath.

For a moment, she waited for him.

_O'Hara._

Then the moment passed, and she was running along the corridor with the chief and McNab and all the world's sense.

Carlton stayed there, an arm lifted in the air.

_Dad's pick up was far, an orange spot in the snow. He didn't stop to wave._

-I'm here.- he whispered, but there was no one.

The funny thing was, Carlton had really imagined his death. Programmed it, it's more likely. At the beginning it had been a glory fantasy, with shotguns shooting across the cemetery's sky and virile speeches about his boldness and skills. Then O'Hara stepped in, walking smoothly over her absurd heels, and Shawn kissed him, and suddenly Carlton had to admit that his departure wouldn't be a so clean job. That there would be pain, and regret, and that all he could do was leaving them with less crap possible. He had programmed to say them farewell. To slip away in a fast way. No smudges, a well-directed exit. It had been comforting. Creepy but comforting.

_How stupid._

Carlton stared at the hospital garden, sitting awkwardly on the steps. Santa Barbara was lazily slipping in the twilight, rose and azure and violet quivering over burning streets. It was the best time of the day, when the air smelled of fresh and concrete and going around with a suit didn't seem so dumb anymore. Or so he supposed, because right now he was neither hot nor cold. The wind didn't brush his skin, the plant spores didn't tickle his grass allergy. The steps were not uncomfortable, simply because he didn't feel them. He didn't feel anything.

And somewhere in the building beind him, he was dying.

After O'Hara left, Carlton had started screaming. Not shouting by impatience, but _screaming_, the way kids and very scared people do. Calling her, the leather jacket, cursing both, running across the hospital, up the stairs, down the stairs, trying to show the world that_ see, he was still there_. But breakdowns are kind of pointless when you don't have a body to wear off and so at some point he just stopped and found himself here, in front of his beloved city. And sit to wait. Wait what, it wasn't important.

He sighed. Maybe, maybe it was a pre-death experience. Some chemical imbalance, neurons coping, swirling in their blood nests. _Dying._

He looked down at his hands. As before, they weren't shaking.

_Crap._

It shouldn't happen. You are alive, you are dead. _Feeling_ dead, well, it was so wrong. Death is not a noble or charming thing, but still he had come to know it. Brushed it more than once, understood its times and its rituals. He was prepared, had _a plan_. Not for this to happen.

And _now, _ besides. Now that everything was getting scary and exciting and real. Now that he and O'Hara had still to organize the Reenactment Ball of the PD. Now that Shawn looked at him that way, and he had begun to buy the Tropical Shampoo along with his own. The shampoo thing hurt more like anything else.

_Shawn's shampoo on his drawer and the smell of his hair and the look in his eyes when he turned and dashed away._

_Oh, Gosh._

He shivered, sinking his head between the knees.

Maybe, maybe still a second, and he would be gone. Zero cerebral waves, call the decease. Oh, how would he like to talk to O'Hara right now. She would snivel all the time, but wouldn't miss a word.

_I don't want to die like this. I don't want to die, O'Hara._

He hugged himself tighter. Let out a sound he wouldn't ever dare to let, the one you had when losing a leg or a limb.

It was then that he heard steps behind him. Squeaking, sneakers-like steps that stopped just before the stairs.

For a moment he thought of Shawn.

_He has come. He has seen me._

-Oh, crap.-

He closed his eyes, because it was a girl's voice.

_You're a fool, Carlton Lassiter._

Still by pure habit he turned, and repressed a curse. It was the girl from the accident, the one who fled. The one who _saw him_. And was currently staring.

For a bunch of seconds, they didn't say a word. Just stared at each other, ready to jump or retreat at the faintest alarm. She had brownish, tangled hair, cut over the shoulders, so much mascara he too saw it. Dark circles under the eyes, no more than twenty.

He wondered briefly what she was seeing.

_Not important. Not fundamental. Skip to the real thing, Carlton._

Because whatever she was seeing, he could see in her eyes. Anger, a streak of pity. _Cognition._

-What is happening?- he asked quietly.

She shifted her weight from one foot to the other. -I think we should start from the beginning. Can I sit down?-

-No. What is happening?-

She gave him a troubled look. -Listen, I'm sorry for having left you there. Seriously. But I couldn't begin it again. I can't do it anymore.-

He didn't understand, but she was talking to him. He talked, she answered. And if he could do it, he could make her talk. He slipped in his interrogation voice before knowing it.

-Then why you came.-

-I had to have some tests here and I, I felt guilty.-

-Why?-

-Because I coud know what is happening. Can I sit?-

He sighed. -Yes.-

She sit down, looked at the city with stiff interest. They stayed in silence, just two persons enjoying the breeze out of the hospital. So perfectly abnormal.

-Why no one could see me?-

-Because you're not exactly here. Or in any other place, for that matter.-

-Bullshit. The truth.-

A hint of annoyance. -I just told you.-

_O'Hara, Spencer. He didn't turn, she did. For a million of other reasons._

-So I'm dead?-

-I'm, well, I'm not sure, but it's possible.- She gave him the quickest look. -It's probable.-

_I don't want to die, O'Hara_.

-No, listen, no. That just doesn't make any sense. It, it's not how it works.-

-Well, sometimes yes. You got stucked, detective. Not before the line, not beyond it. Still here, but not as before.-

He unfolded his body, straightening. Not before the line, not beyond it. Seeing everything, just from a wrong angle.

Just out of sight.

_Oh Christ. It makes sense._

-Are, are you saying I'm a freakin' ghost?-

-Not exactly.-

He let out a laugh, a limped thing that died halfway in the throat.

-Oh, perfect. I'm a ghost. A ghost, for Christ's sake. - No, no wait Carlton. It couldn't be, there are other possibilities, it couldn't be or this thing would eat us. _Attack. Attack, and she wouldn't talk again._ - Well, thanks for nothing, but I think I should have known better. You, you're one of those goth weirdos, right? I knew you were off.-

Her eyes widened in disbelief, and his mind knew it was an excuse, _it knew perfectly_. -What? No, I'm...-

-No, no, it must be like this, I'm confused and you're playing with me and are one of...of them. Right?- He shot up, ready to go.

_Go where, detective? _

She didn't move. No magic suddenly snapped, no one returned him his realm.

His voice became a whisper.

-Please.- _Go where, detective?_ -Please tell me I'm right.-

She stared at him, and in her eyes was all the sadness of the earth. -This is really happening, detective. I know it, because I saw it other times.-

_Where, detective?_ -But it, it...-

Two voices suddenly echoed near them, behind the large glass doors; shuffling of nurse shoes. She stood abruptly, turning with the violence of very skilled cops or very frightened people. The steps fluttered far but she bitted her lip, looked him. Earnestly, coldly.

-Shit. Listen, I'm sorry, but I have to go.- She run a hand across her hair. -People could see me, I can't stay. They can't find me here. I promised. I'm sorry.-

She was going to run. To disappear again.

_Breath, act._

Carlton stiffened_. _-What- he blurted out. - No, no, you can't go. Not after that.-

-I'm sorry.-

-No, you can't. You can't. It is...- He opened his mouth, got out nothing, and found himself saying the first and truest insult he had ever used. -It is _unfair_.-

-You don't understand.- She backed from him, warily. - They can't see me talking alone, all would be fucked up. I'm sorry.-

She stepped across the door.

_Like O'Hara, like Shawn. Oh God, no, not again. _-Wait, no, I don't-

He tossed his hand forward, clasped it around her wrist.

And the world screamed.

It didn't really hurt; it didn't really happen anything. But the world cracked, right on their laced hands and hundred of dead endless voices cried and the fabric of matter shivered, _life and death, clouds and clouds rolling over_, streams of beatless grey swirming around as_ flesh_ and _nothing_ clashed and they shouldn't clash not because it was wrong but because it was unthinkable, it was inexpressible. He felt the decay, the hopeless cold worming among the living like a contagion, realized it was _him_, cried for a million years.

Carlton pulled back his fingers, slowly. The aisle reappeared. They stared at each other, knowing what the other saw, sure they couldn't turn back.

-You can't go.-

-No.- The girl said. -No I can't.-


	4. Comites (Alleys)

_Sorry for the delay, but I'm working on a one-shot that is taking a time between forever and forever and half: you know when a project just haunts you and you can't think about anything else in the creative field? Exactly that. Anyway, here's the forth chapter: this time, Jules and Shawn. Shawn's fans, please, don't kill me: just wait for iiit..._

_Thanks for your support, as always._

_P.S.: The word "Comites" meant something between "mates", "partners" and "alleys": very tricky, but I like the ambiguity._

**IV – Comites**

**(Alleys)**

He had decided to go to his father's home almost instantly.

He had not even tried to get back to his flat. Just ignored Gus's attempts to talk, staring at the half-glued stickers on the front glass. Pointedly, carefully, because_ not staring meant thinking and that was not good_. The Blueberry purred under him, the questions rose and were promptly stuffed back. Kept breathing.

When his dad opened the door he miraculously didn't ask awkward questions and restricted himself to querys that didn't require more than five words-answers. He asked if there had been an accident; yet it had, was he hurt, no not really, had it been crappy, yeah thanks pretty crappy. Then he had walked in, declining a beer and fully knowing that Gus would spill the beans in the next twenty seconds. He suddenly had to pee, went to the upstair bathroom. And in that moment, with one hand on the seat of his dad's toilet, Shawn Spencer suddenly thought that right now he could be in a world without Carlton Lassiter, and the remains of his lunch ended in the WC.

Then time passed; he cleaned himself, washed his mouth, sit on the couch. Shawn felt thirsty; even tired, the forehead bruises mildly aching.

And nothing else.

It wasn't like he didn't understand, or he didn't care: it was just that he didn't _work_ with tragedies. He was pathetical and pretty useless in that kind of situations: emergencies, wild guesses, everytime you had to understand something or find a way out or _just act_ yes, he was your man, but not when all you could do was sit and morne. Hey, if you pick Bugs Bunny and soak him in sighs and regrets he's not Bugs Bunny anymore, he's just a sad rabbit with a kink for carrots.

And Carlton was the same: it was why they actually functioned in their disfuctional way. They pushed hard, pulled the other back, clashing clumsily as if they had all the time of the world to make it up. If one of them cried, if one of them said that they're not really indestructible and they couldn't jump back up then _bang_, the balance is broken, they are alone again. They wouldn't be anymore Bugs Bunny and Duffy, or Sylvester Pussycat or whatever gay version you want.

And he didn't want it. _Lassie_ wouldn't want it.

He saw for a moment Jules' face, the sheer betrayal in her eyes.

_Ah, quit the crap, Spencer._ You _don't want it. _

He saw the cordless sitting on the coffee table. Jules number was easy, the last four digits being his birthday.

He didn't move.

He heard a shuffle of shoes behind him. Clacking leather, so they must be his dad's absurd sandals. He was vaguely aware of Gus having left some time before, but he wasn't sure.

The steps stopped behind the couch.

-Ehy.-

-Ehy.-

-I'm making pancakes.-

Shawn shifted on the cushions, not repressing a smirk. Ah, bad sign. Henry embraced his sweet tooth and cooked pancakes for dinner only in times of great crysis. They had ate them the day Mom left, when Uncle Jack punched Pope at the Thanskiving Day and the last evening Shawn spent at home, before throwing in a bag a bunch of clothes and cash and fleeing for the next ten years.

Henry knew everything, of course.

_Bad, bad sign._

-Ah, thanks Pope, but I'm- _I was passionately hugging your toilet not so long ago? _-I'm not very hungry right now.-

-Ah. Sure. Okay.-

Silence. Shawn was deliberately staring at his Dad's hairy calves, but he could almost _smell_ the unease hovering around him.

He sighed. -Gus spilled it all, right?-

-He endured up to fifteen seconds.-

-That's my man.-

The room was awfully quiet. Butter-like light poured from the kitchen on the floor tiles.

-How are you, Shawn?-

He cringed. Tricky question: answering "fine" would be dumb, because his father would sense the lie in less than a micro-second. He needed something plausible but not too alarming.

-I...I don't know what I'm feeling.-

-Bullshit, kid. You may not like what you feel, but you _know_ it damn well.-

-Mmm.-

Henry dropped on the couch next to him, turned on the lamp near the television. Waited.

-Shawn, why are you not with Carlton?-

Oh God, yes, Henry _knew _about them, now he remembered. It had been a tragic mistake involving the petting zoo and his phone's battery, but he couldn't recall the details. Only that it ended with a very purple Carlton, cheeks so red he had to kiss those pouting lips on his doorstep.

_Face bleached white, blue lips smeared with red._

He sank his head between his knees, gritting teeth.

-Pope, can't we just pretend to have already had the Comforting- Scolding Talk and proceed? _Please_.-

-I'm not gonna saying anything like that, kid. And I won't force you to do anything. Surely _that_ wouldn't make me disappointed.- Henry's shirt stretched on the cushion. - But nevertheless, I need to say something.-

He knew what he needed to say.

_Shawn, it's hard but it is life, Shawn, if you want this job you better get used to it._

_Shawn, at least now you could stop joking and find a nice suitable girl._

-Seriously, Dad, I don't want to hear it.-

-Shawn...-

-Dad...- He pressed his hands on the temples, hard. _-_Stop it_.-_

-I...-

-_Please.-_

For a moment Shawn almost thought he had won, that his father was leaving. Then came an hard sigh.

-I was just going to say that you _want _to stay with him.-

Shawn looked up abruptly; Henry had straightened, staring intently at the window. Not a clue about his words.

-What?-

-You don't want to let him go like this. Now you think it's not a good move and that you going all freaked won't be of any use and this is absolutely true, because right now nothing you could do would help him.- He sighed again, stared down at his hands. He never seemed so old. -But if you don't go and that is the last chance to stay with him, to see him even just _breathe_, you'll regret it for all your life.

You're both good guys, _good men_. Neither of you deserve it.-

Shawn blinked, because his Dad was now watching him. No calculation, for a change. Something too soft in his eyes.

_He was serious. Oh God, he was serious._

And for some reason he felt his throat tight, like suddenly there was no more oxigen in the whole world.

_His damn blessing. Oh, Carlton would be _so_ pleased._

For a moment, Shawn was about to tell him everything, that he had thrown up after a simple thought and that he couldn't go and that he wanted to still be Bugs Bunny. But he couldn't breathe, and you need oxigen even to be brave.

Henry widened his eyes like he had suddenly realized to have been nearly human for a whole minute, and yet didn't totally regret it. In pure Henry's style, he patted awkwardly Shawn's back.

-I go pick pancakes.-

Juliet O'Hara was sitting for the first time in several hours. She was slumped on a chair in the IC corridor, near the end enough not to be in the way and not enough to feel the silence. Until that moment she had drafted her report, called the PD artificer squad to know the news, sent McNab to the precinct to collect all the case's files.

_Jim Polokov, fourty years, boss of the White Hand Gang. Big drug load expected for Thursday the fifth, Shawn found the location. Stop sobbing like a little girl, McNab._

She had talked with the chief, listened carefully to the docs. Gone to the fourth room on the right, brushed her fingers against the double-glass.

_Damn, Carlton, what a bad day._

Now she untied her seven-hinch pumps, slowly. The crazy thing was, that it hadn't even been a_ so_ dangerous operation; not for their canons, however. She had expected to end in this aisle almost every day of her career, but not today, and somehow this made everything look even more unjust. Her best friend had flat-lined three times, she was alone, _no, she was the only one_ waiting here, and then there had been that moment. That second near the op rooms, when something changed in the air and she _just had_ to stop: not knowing why, just obeying her skin, like you do to dodge a bullet or to listen to a familiar voice. Feeling the same ringing in her ears.

Detective O'Hara kicked away one shoe, feeling like she was falling hard and at speedlight.

_What a bad day. I can't breathe. What a _bad day_._

A cola suddenly appeared at the brim of her sight. Bobbing gently against her shoulder.

-There. I've tried to find a Diet Coke, but there was only that.-

She looked up. Burton was standing near her chair, smile stiff on his lips. He was pale and the blue shirt was wrinkled over the belt, but it was clean. _Oh, yeah, he wasn't there. He wasn't there._ The sudden anger nearly took off her breath.

-Gus. W-what are you doing here? Shawn?-

-He's with Henry.-

He looked for something to say, found nothing.

-What about Carlton?-

She rested her head against the wall. She had talked with almost no pause for the previous two hours, and still now her mouth felt like concrete. How funny.

-Still critical. Something, something about the subclavian artery, I don't know. -_ oh no you know, you know perfectly, every darn word of that chart_ - Maybe you could give a look, later?-

-Sure thing.-

They stayed in silence. Juliet closed her eyes for a moment, Burton didn't sit down. The speaker cracked something about an emergency puke at the third floor.

She swallowed. -He won't come, will he?-.

Gus flinched, talking in that high-pitched squeak she usually found so sweet and now left her absolutely indifferent.

He wasn't there, Shawn isn't here _no one but me is here._

-It's complicated.-

-It's pretty simple I think.-

-Jules, listen, I've known him for ages. He, he doesn't do well with these things. After all that happened to him...-

And there she snapped. Juliet found herself standing, blood pumping in her head so hard it hurt. -What, for example, _what_? He has a father, a mother, a best friend, it doesn't seem so horrible.- She took a step forward, saw him wince. -I'm the one with the fucked up family, I'm the one with trust issues but I'm _here_.-

-I understand, but really, it's different...-

-No Gus, it's not fuckin' different. I can go with any crap Shawn come with, you know it, but he _chose_ Carlton. It's not like he was the freakish cousin crashed on your doorstep, he was the one he chose, the one he chose instead of the bank guy or the pub girl that gets scared when the counter turns off and almost unerringly comes home every day. We _chose_ him, and so now we must be here.- She couldn't breathe. _How you dare, Shawn Spencer. How you dare let me here, alone._ -And right now I don't give a damn about your friend's feelings.-

She turned, leaning on the opposite wall. Inhaling deeply like Carlton said. _Breathe, think, act._

God it wasn't working.

She had expected Gus to leave, more or less definitively: they were defending their own best buddies, it was a doomed short circuit. Instead, his loafers pattered nearer.

-What about you, Jules?-

-Sorry?- She turned, for a good half actually lost.

-How are _you_, Jules.-

His voice was low. His eyes so warm,_ sweetly, cliché-like_ warm.

-I...- Gosh, she honestly didn't know. How stupid. -I...-

She passed a hand through her hair, found bits of ash, of Carlton's blood. Her heart broke.

-I'm _disheveled_.-

And when the tears began, Gus was hugging her.


End file.
